Duty Disguised
by The Mystic Doctor
Summary: It was his firm and long-held belief that no butler would ever be as devoted to his mistress as he was to Madam Red. He owed the generous woman so much, after all. But Grell had a feeling that no other butler would have ended up in this situation, either… Butler/human Grell only!
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first long story in quite a while. I usually don't write anything but one-shots, which are what I feel I am best at. But once I started writing this, I realized it would be **_**way**_** too long to be a one-shot.**

**If you're unfamiliar with the way I write Grell, please feel free to check out "Unfit to Serve", a collection of one-shots featuring him in butler form only (in which he is completely human and not death god at all), which I try to update every so often. It will be on hiatus for a while though, as I work on this story.**

/

It came as all the others did – carefully wrapped up and secured within layers of brown paper, and tied with the same rough twine, done up in a neat knot at the top. Grell followed it with his eyes as it was lifted down from the shelf where it sat, and carried to where he stood waiting at the front of the room. Mrs. Turner's place was a small and cozy little establishment, well-kept despite the rolls of bright fabric scattered on every flat surface, and the woman herself very kind, but a particular type of paranoia always seemed to overtake him whenever he came for the reason he had today. He almost wished he could view the item for a moment, just to be certain that it was indeed what the madam had ordered. But how silly he was, for when had it not been?

"Thank you for your few minutes' patience, Mr. Sutcliffe," the aforementioned seamstress spoke, smiling, and passed the parcel into the butler's hands. The package, like most of the others before, was quite hefty. As he had come to learn, Madam Red was very much fond of requesting a full dress each time she placed an order, underskirts and all.

"Oh, not at all…the pleasure is mine to stop in, as it always is," responded Grell, shifting his burden about in his arms, and subsequently emitting a grunt.

"Will you require any assistance, sir?" Mrs. Turner asked as she observed him. It was the same question he heard every time.

"…I am most grateful for your concern, Ma'am, but please be assured that I will be all right…I have only to walk outside to the carriage."

The middle-aged woman hesitated, but eventually nodded, though moving to open the door for the heavy-laden servant nonetheless. "Very well. Please send my greetings to Ms. Durless, and let me know if I may be of further help."

At last obtaining a firm hold around the massive bundle, Grell nodded in return, his face partly concealed by one corner. It would have been more polite to bow, but lowering the parcel would only warrant more grappling with it when he went to pick it up again. "Of course. Thank you very much for everything, Ma'am. Good day!"

And thus, precariously stepping through the door so generously held open, he made his way back onto the streets of West End London.

/

_THUMP._

Grell winced as the object causing his arms so much grief slipped from his grasp and hit the hardwood floor of the upstairs hallway. Ah, and how very close he had come to making it all the way to the madam's bedchamber without this very thing occurring! Well, the fact that he had managed to haul it up the stairs without any sort of injury must certainly be commendable anyhow, he reminded himself.

The dull yet very audible sound had served as an abrupt signal to the lady of the house, and appearing in the hall, she briskly made her way over to where Grell was crouching and preparing to lift the dropped brown-paper package. The servant raised his gaze upon hearing the approaching footsteps. "My lady – your new dress is at last here! Please allow me just one moment and I will have it in your room!"

Madam Red sighed, watching him rise to his feet as he simultaneous struggled with the bundle. "Thank you. Just take care not to hurt yourself, please." Moving past him, she directed her steps toward the door of her bedroom, and with arms full, Grell followed.

Once they were inside, she promptly turned to face him, and it was only then that her anticipation over the completed outfit finally revealed itself. With glowing eyes and a broad, eager smile, she extended her hands toward the parcel which Grell, exhaling in relief, was laying to rest on the bed. "Well then, I appreciate your assistance. You are now dismissed."

"My lady – pardon me, but will you be – ah, that is –" fumbled Grell, attempting to put to words the question which he could not find it in himself to resist asking, however indirectly.

For Madam Red however, his inquiry was easily guessed. "Yes, I will wear it for a bit today, so you will be able to see it and give your criticism."

"Oh, Madam, I don't expect that any criticism will be necessary!" the flushing butler exclaimed, raising his hands. "Indeed, I cannot recall a single time when you have worn anything that did not befit you! I am merely…I suppose, well…"

"You are curious," Madam Red stated, concluding the thought he was so poor at hiding. _Perhaps overly so._ But, she only continued to smile. "I know. You always are. Now –" she gestured to the door. "Go on, but do not linger too far, in case I need you, though it is not likely."

"Of course, my lady", Grell replied, and performed his usual, ungainly bow. "Do not hesitate to call if you must." These words were admittedly insincere however, as the thought of helping Madam Red to dress always caused great anxiety. He was no maidservant, which both of them knew, and he _still_ did not know why she did not employ at least one to help in such daily situations as this. But somehow, Madam Red had grown adept at doing herself up each day, hooks, ties and all the rest. There had only been a few instances when his assistance had been required, each of which involved catching an unwanted glimpse of and/or touching her undergarments, and which had, each time, sent Grell's head reeling and left him a tomato-red, trembling mess.

After closing her door, he drifted down into the drawing room, where he wandered about for several minutes to see if anything needed tidying up. But before much time had passed, a cry pierced the air.

"UGH! No, this cannot be!"

He flinched at the shrill, unexpected sound, but nonetheless found himself nervously rushing back down the hallway. His gloved fingers brushed the doorknob, but remembering the etiquette of a servant, he pulled them away at the last second. Taking a deep breath and blinking away sudden mental images of petticoats and chemises, he called out, "My lady, is everything all right?"

Her voice again sounded, irritation leaking from it. "Come in at once!"

Meekly and with lowered eyes, he entered the room.

"It's all right, Grell, you can look up."

He did. There she stood in her new attire, but what the source of her displeasure was, he could not for the life of him tell. The outer skirt was beige in color, one side drawn up a bit above the knee and held in place by maroon velvet pieces made to resemble a flower. The underskirt, revealed at the bottom where the outer one was drawn up, was a smoky green with wide, maroon stripes. The high-collared bodice was also beige, a thick maroon stripe running vertically down each side of the center, another, smaller flower situated at the left shoulder. Each sleeve had a maroon band encircling the cuff, and each band was yet again accented by a velvet flower. The dress was just as, if not more so, splendid as Grell had envisioned, and he found it to even further enhance his madam's overall loveliness. But why were her arms crossed over her front?

He was granted only a moment to stand and behold her, half in rapt admiration and half in perplexity, before she rose her voice, impatient. "There's been a mistake. Heaven only knows how it came about, but I have _never_ heard of a dressmaker making such a grave error before." Her speech was penetrated by her scowl.

Cautiously, he spoke. "And – and what would that be, Madam?"

"Can you not see?!" came the exclamation. At his flummoxed look, she rolled her eyes. "It's this bodice. It is not the right size."

Hearing this, Grell was at last able to perceive the problem. Her hands were gripping the front edges of the jacket-style bodice, holding it closed around her. She was without a doubt correct; it clearly did not fit her and appeared to be made for someone with a somewhat larger frame.

"Oh, my lady!" he cried out, hand thrown up to his forehead in dismay. "This is a calamity! How could they have conceived of wronging you so?! The ultimate masterpiece it would have been, if not for this faux pas!" How could anyone disgrace his worthy madam like this?

"Indeed," she sniffed, clutching the bodice tighter. "I would never in a thousand years have imagined such inferior service from Turner's. I can only wonder which one of her girls it was who became so careless. I am sure there is no true spite involved – merely distraction – but that does not make this any less excusable."

Upon hearing this, the accusatory thoughts which burned in Grell's head were, in an instant, snuffed out as the flame of a candle. Whoever was behind this blunder now dined at the same table of Poor Service that he did…that table at which he seemed forever fated to carve and serve the meat of Failure. If anything, he should be preparing the unknown seamstress-in-training a seat.

He only nodded in response. Madam Red, after briefly casting her eyes at the brown paper wrapping that lay discarded on the bed, again spoke. "You can expect me to accompany you to town tomorrow, for I will have certain words made ready for Mrs. Turner. Let us hope that she will just as soon have a refund ready for me. Now, please excuse me."

"Yes, Madam." With a final covert glance at the dress, he turned to go, shaking his head. "What a pity that it must go to waste, if I may say so…it is of a marvelous design, if nothing else…" At seeing the sour look she still wore, he trailed off, thinking that perhaps it was best if he took his leave quietly.

Ah, what a dark day tomorrow would be for that kind dressmaker and her helpers.

/

It was something which struck him as a bit unusual. Here it was, a new day, well into the morning, and Madam Red had not yet issued the command – the command that he drive her down to the shop, where she would doubtlessly cause a great uproar in demanding her refund. He couldn't believe that she would not make the trip at some point today, but currently, she only remained inside her study, and the oddness of it made him just the slightest bit apprehensive.

Despite her not coming out however, he needed to go in, though for an entirely unrelated reason. Armed with feather duster, rag, and furniture polish, the wary butler approached the door, and gingerly knocked.

After a moment of silence, her calm reply was heard. "Yes."

Holding his supplies against him in one arm, he used the hand of the other to slowly open the door. Advancing inside a step, he bowed, causing the duster to slip away from him and softly hit the ground. Grell tried not to let this distract him as he cleared his throat and said, "Please excuse the interruption, my lady, but I believe I am scheduled to perform a thorough dusting of the study this morning?"

Leaning back in the chair behind the desk, she turned her head away from the nearby window and stared at him. The absent look in her deep red eyes was difficult to miss. Startled somewhat, Grell could only wonder if he had unwittingly disrupted some profound reverie. But then, she shook her head as if to clear it, and regarded him with her ordinary, steady gaze. "That's right. I must have forgotten about that. Please, do begin. Pay no mind to me; I am not yet through reviewing the mail."

Having said this, she straightened in her chair, and reached for one of several folded papers lying before her. Grell retrieved the feather duster and set down the objects he carried, but found himself reluctant to proceed. It was not often that Madam Red stayed nearby while he was cleaning or doing most other menial chores. Her presence, and more significantly the scrutiny she was likely to observe him with, only heightened his already incessant self-consciousness.

But strangely, she didn't seem as though she intended to watch him all that much. She didn't even seem that focused on the mail, Grell noticed after a few minutes as he carefully wiped down the surface of a small table. Rather, her eyes had restlessly strayed back to the window, her figure again reclining in the white armchair. Knowing it was not his place, he did not press her about this unusual behavior, but continued with the task at hand, making sure to keep out of her line of sight.

"Grell…did I ever tell you about my grandmother?"

Surprised, he turned to face her. "Why, no…I don't believe you have, Madam."

"She wants me to come and visit her."

"Is that…so?" He cast a glance down at the letters and newsjournals that lay in a heap on the desk.

"Yes." Still without looking at him, she continued. "She lives just outside of Castle Camps. It's a small town – a village, you might say – quite a distance north of here. When I was a child, we would visit her often. The excitement and sheer size of London was too much for her, she always said, and I don't recall her ever traveling down to see us in our home. I have not received word from her in – oh, quite some time, until today." She paused. "According to her letter, she is preparing to at last hand down the many family heirlooms and other treasures in her possession. She asks that I come to claim what she has for me."

"Oh?" Grell asked, already imagining in dread the journey that would surely be in order, and the many preparations it would entail.

"Yes. Otherwise, she says, she may decide to sell them to charity, either now or when she eventually passes. In all truth, I think she simply wishes to see how many of us will come to see her."

Grell nodded, in the back of his mind trying to remember where the madam's traveling bags were kept.

"However," and here she heaved a great sigh, at last pulling her eyes away from the view of the outdoors and once more resting them upon him. "there is a problem. There is one item that I would be overjoyed to accept from her – really, I can't think of who else is left but me to take it – but I know she does not plan to offer it to me. She has made it clear that it is for one person alone – and that is Rachel."

Hearing and swiftly recognizing the name not often uttered, Grell brought his remote ponderings to an abrupt halt, and stood uncertainly, not quite knowing how to respond or react. When mentioning her dear, deceased sister, Madam Red would at times speak with fondness and at other times with grief, and so Grell had learned to take great care whenever the name was brought up. It wasn't always easy to determine when words of comfort were called for, or when keeping quiet was the better alternative. In this case, he chose to simply nod.

"So, do you see how this is a dilemma?" the lady went on, hardly registering the bob of his head. "Rachel, for obvious reasons, cannot go to claim anything. But my grandmother – who is aged and with her mind half gone – believes that she still lives!"

At this, Grell could not conceal a bit of astonishment. "Does she really? But, my lady, has she not been told? Or supplied with some sort of evidence?"

"Of course she has. But she still will not believe any of it. In a way, I can almost understand; after all, she loved Rachel more than anyone." If Grell was not mistaken, the slightest trace of bitterness had slipped into that statement. He watched with unintended interest as Madam Red frowned to herself. "This object I speak of, by the way, is a ring – one which we always saw her wear, and which Rachel and I both admired. I still remember it – it is a silver band crowned with the most lovely garnet stone. Sometimes we would speak among ourselves about which one of us might inherit it someday. But we were so young, and the future seemed so far off then." She sighed, and held a hand to her head as though it ached. "If Rachel doesn't come for it, that ring will surely be lost to me forever. And – and I just can't let that happen!"

Try as he might, Grell could not find it within himself to sympathize with her. He had grown up in very different circumstances, after all, and had always kept himself from hoping for most things – and especially material things. Soothingly, he asked, "Is there any way, Madam, that you may be able to convince your grandmother of the truth?"

She shook her head, and shifted forward to rest her chin within her palm, elbow against the desk. "It's not likely, but all I can think to do is try anyway. I've always wished for that ring; it would go so wonderfully with many of my clothes. I must try my hardest to bring it home with me."

Grell scratched his head, attempting to mask his uneasiness at the thought of his lady resorting to stealing this ring, an underhanded act indeed. _No, Madam would never do something so insidious! A contemptible person I am, for considering such a thing…_

"I do hope you will be able to speak some sense into her, Madam," he managed to supply. And, doing all he could to suppress thoughts of his dear Lady Red turned thief, added, "Do not hesitate to let me know if I can help in any way."

A few moments' stillness passed, and upon seeing her fall silent once more, Grell slowly resumed his work. But then – several minutes later, midway through his best attempt to delicately dust a picture frame – it happened.

With extreme suddenness, Madam Red jumped from her seat to a standing position, the movement so rapid and her expression engraved with such extraordinary shock that Grell, leaping backward and slamming into the wall in fright, almost believed her to be possessed. Wide staring eyes turned toward him, and he cringed through the newly-born throbbing in his head. What had he done?! He had done something, hadn't he?! Either that or a mouse had run across her foot, but he was only ever inclined to assume the worst.

"MyladyI'msosorryformyactionsIbegyourforgivenesspleasepardonmydespicableselfIdonotmeanto-"

"No, Grell, no! Listen! Stop that bowing; stand up and _listen_! Yes, that's better. Now – I've just figured it all out – you are the answer – the solution!"

The overwhelmed butler did not – could not – comprehend. He still felt as though he had literally jumped out of his skin, and his boggled mind remained partially convinced that he was at fault somehow.

In unwavering excitement, Madam Red continued. "Grell, listen to me. I need you to unpack that dress from the other day – the one that doesn't fit me. Instead of returning it, I want you to try it on. If it fits, you can accompany me to Castle Camps posing as Rachel, and my grandmother will most certainly hand over the ring!"

He heard the words…but for some reason they were having an awfully difficult time being absorbed into his brain. He nearly felt outside of himself, as if he was listening to her proclaim such a silly notion to someone else, a notion that made no sense at all. When the mental fog finally began to dissipate, he noticed her watching him intently, and silently repeated to himself the words he recalled hearing. It was like waking from a dream…only to discover in terror that the dream was real.

It sunk in, what she wanted him to do. He gaped, his face contorting into ten times more alarm than before. "Madam…you…you can't be…that's…it's so…so…" Despite all of the adjectives running through his head, it was impossible to choose just one to complete the thought.

"It's all right; I truly believe that it can work! Didn't I say that my grandmother's mind is half gone? The last time I saw her, there were many things she mistook for other things, or that she had to be reminded of in order to remember. I know that it's a sad thing, but if we tell her that you are Rachel…"

No longer mindful of responding respectfully, Grell stumbled back a step, bumping again into the wall, though this time with much less violence. "No…I can't! No – it's preposterous! Except for those who are hindered by physical blindness, there is not one living, breathing human being on this earth who would be fooled – not even your grandmother. And besides – I would look – no. I am sorry, but…"

…_but it's the most harebrained scheme to ever come into existence!_

"Grell, you can do it! I know you can! All you need is to be disguised properly! We can pin your hair up – oh, thank goodness for your hair! I can loan you a hat, as well. Oh, but you should try the bodice on first. I think you're about the right size for it. Stay with me, now – don't go and faint!"

He was trying with all his might to keep from doing just that. The more her fantastical visions flowed forth, the more his panic escalated. He shook his head to show that he heard, but made no move to leave the room.

"Grell." Her enthusiasm simmered a bit, and her voice became gentle. She raised an arm and reached toward him, resting it lightly on his shoulder. "I don't want you to hate me. But if we do this and do it right, no one but you and I will ever know about it. And, we don't even need to stay for more than a day. Just one day, with only the three of us and perhaps a servant or two in the house. I know I can't make you into a perfect woman, either…we will probably have to compromise on several aspects of this. Perhaps we can find a way for you to hide your face, if it would make you feel better."

It was no use; her assurances didn't seem to have any effect. Perhaps it was necessary to approach him from a different angle. "…if I must, I will give you something in return for your help. A reward of some kind. What about a bonus in your pay? I did hear you mumbling the other day about needing a new shirt. Not good enough? Well, how much money will it take? What else could you possibly want?"

Poor, flustered Grell did not know how to respond. The concept of a reward to carry out this unappealing plot did not seem to make any difference. Her next offer, however, captured his attention:

"…well, what would you say to a day off?"

Never was that topic so loosely discussed. Days off were extremely few in number for Madam Red's lone servant, and those were official holidays only. The thought of any old day freely granted to him was definitely tempting, but was even that worth what she was asking him to do?

She noticed right away the subtle glimmer in his olive eyes…but still no answer came. She had brought him to the point where he couldn't make up his mind, at least…

"…all right!" she exclaimed, the desperation plain to see. "Two days off to do as you please! We can even write a contract, if you wish – but I cannot give you anything more! Would you consider that? I cannot do this without you!"

Perhaps it was that final plea – one which did much to elevate his sense of being needed – combined with the undeniable allure of two days all to himself, that did it. He could not bear to know that he would willingly let her down and cause her sorrow, even if he had, unspeakable as it was, considered it at first. He drew a deep breath.

"My lady, your offer is appreciated…and accepted. I am at your disposal."

To say that she was thrilled was an understatement. So much genuine happiness, he had never before witnessed from her. "Do you mean it?! Grell – you cannot imagine how much this means to me!"

One final question, however, remained to be asked – one that expressed the abiding fear which Grell could not manage to rid himself of. His voice quaking badly, he asked, "Aren't you afraid, though, Madam, that I will…make the most abhorrent mistakes, and bring everything to ruin? What if…what if something happens, and someone sees me for what I am?"

She was quiet, but after a moment looked him fixedly in the eye, her authoritative demeanor restored. "If something happens…well, I will be there, and I will have to handle it. But this being my grandmother, the chances are virtually none. Do not work yourself up over such thoughts; only concentrate on the things I will teach you."

Swallowing down the boulder in his throat, he nodded, and pretended to be encouraged, as though he was not about to embark on the most foolhardy journey of his life.

"…yes, my lady."

/

**Historical note: In the Victorian age, dresses (according to my research) were made of not one but of at least two separate pieces, the bodice and the skirt(s). In this way women could mix and match their clothing and save money. The dress in this story is based off of a picture of a Victorian-age dress I found online. If anyone would like to see it, let me know and I'll post the link on my profile page.**

**I am about to torture Grell far more than he deserves, which I admittedly feel kind of bad about, but hey, it does make a good story. I am hoping that this will turn out to be as epic as I want it to. Sorry Grell, you're just too loyal to Madam Red and tempted by days off to say no.**

**Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

It was really quite a magnificent dress – his opinion of that had not changed in the least – but it just didn't suit him the way it did Madam Red, Grell thought with some sarcasm. By a sadistic turn of fate, the accursed bodice had fit him, somewhat snugly actually, and effectively dashing his last hopes of evading the plan. He stood now in his bedroom, facing the wall mirror but trying not to look too long at the humiliating sight within.

As for many of the details, certain decisions had already been made. He was to wear one of the madam's wide-brimmed hats whenever possible, and to pull it down slightly in order to conceal part of his face. When this was not convenient, he was to instead use a fan or a handkerchief. It was also deemed that his shoes would be easily identifiable as a man's, and although not much could be done about this, Madam Red thought it best to undo the normal black laces and replace them with red ribbons. His hair was to be pinned up in a tight knot, and despite the fact that his was not even a shade close to the radiant gold that Rachel's had been, Madam Red was convinced that it would make no difference to her aged and forgetful grandmother.

And then, there was the matter of his voice – a dead giveaway to his true gender, should he utter a word. Madam Red, however, had had the brilliant idea that he should pretend to be somewhat ill and unable to speak – all he needed to do was communicate with nods or shakes of his head.

He was still waiting to awaken from this senseless dream.

"Grell, please turn around." He obeyed, the skirt swirling with him, a quite foreign sensation. With a critical gaze, Madam Red examined him up and down. "I don't know…I still think you don't appear thin enough. If only you would try the corset…" Grell immediately blanched, much like he had a short while ago when she had initially made the suggestion, and retreated a step, shivering in trepidation. "…but I know you will not go that far. Hmm…"

Grell pushed up his spectacles, an item which he was (very gratefully) permitted to keep. "Madam," he asked, timidly, "with all due respect, is the…bustle* truly necessary to the dress?" The concept of the device seemed so silly, now that he was wearing one.

The look she gave him would have been enough of an answer. "Of course it is, unless you want to look like a woman from the lower classes, with no sense of style. If you refuse the corset, you absolutely cannot do so with the bustle. Now, there must be another way to make you look a bit slimmer…and to more effectively hold up your 'chest'." She gestured to his torso, where, inside the dress, were stuffed quite a number of his own rolled-up (and clean) socks. This aspect of the facade was likely the most awkward part of all, and Grell was trying desperately to ignore it. "I wonder," she continued slowly, still scrutinizing him, "if a waistband of some kind would help. A wide ribbon, perhaps? Yes, let's try it. Wait right here; I'll be back shortly."

She returned with a maroon ribbon, and insisted on fastening it around his waist herself, cinching it just tight enough so that he could still breathe, although just barely. He adjusted the socks pressed against his front, and looked up to see her smiling and nodding in satisfaction. "That's better. Not ideal, of course, but better."

"My lady…please do pardon me, but don't you think that all this is…um…disrespectful to your sister's memory? Would she not be offended by an ignoble, unrefined creature such as myself… and not even a female…calling himself by her name?"

She paused, clearly unprepared for this profound question, which she appeared to not even have considered until now. "…you may think so, but I believe Rachel would understand. She would not want to see the ring that she also loved given to someone outside the family, I am sure. Anyway, now that your appearance is more or less decided upon, it is time to run a basic course in proper female etiquette. Start by simply walking. Don't rush; take small steps. Come on, now…that's it…"

Inevitably, he stumbled.

And while he couldn't speak for his lady, he could not help but take it as a bad omen.

/

Omen or not, the morning of departure finally dawned, and all too soon. Grell, who had acquired little sleep the night prior, did not feel any more like a woman than he ever would, but he couldn't say he hadn't learned anything. Even after the countless hours of rehearsal however, applying his newfound knowledge would still take much focus.

The plan for traveling to Edythe Harvey's home, some sixty miles north of London, ran thus: they would board a train out of the city and up to the town of Saffron Walden, Grell in his own clothes. There, they would stop at an inn, where he would don his disguise, and a carriage would be hired which would then drive them the remaining ten or so miles to the village of Castle Camps. A single night would be spent in the home of their elderly hostess, and by mid-afternoon tomorrow, the cunning duo would be well on the return trip home, stopping at the inn once more for Grell to transform back into his un-womanly self.

Staring at the luggage that sat waiting in the foyer, and with the reality of his part in the scheme sinking even deeper in, the overstrung butler almost considered asking Madam Red to kindly call it all off. But then he remembered the contract which had been written up and signed by them both, and which made escape impossible. He _was _the one who had said that letting the dress go to waste would be a shame, after all, a fact which she had not failed to recently throw back in his face.

In all honesty, Grell didn't remember too much about the journey, so preoccupied was he with innumerable worries. After what was undoubtedly a much too short train ride to Saffron Walden, lady and servant arrived at a fairly respectable (and thankfully, nearly empty) inn, where he squeezed himself into his costume and allowed Madam Red to artfully bunch and arrange the back of the blue underskirt in what was supposedly a stylish fashion. After his brunette mane had been combed and twisted up into a neat bun and the other odds and ends were accounted for, they at last exited the building (Grell holding on to Madam Red's arm while descending the staircase) and boarded a coach for Castle Camps. When they arrived at their destination and the disguised butler, hiding his face, had been assisted out of the carriage by the driver (an unfamiliar experience indeed), Madam Red touched his arm lightly, and leaned over in order to whisper, "Look over this way – this is the house."

He turned to where she indicated. Beyond a considerably sized front lawn (the grass a fresher green than any growing in London), and past a well-tended garden of tulips, zinnias and other flowers, sat a fine country home constructed of brown stone. It was by no means one of the great, upscale villas that could frequently be found in those better-known areas of the countryside, but it was obvious to any onlooker that the resident of this place was well-off nonetheless. If Grell hadn't been so distracted by his rapidly intensifying dread, he would have perceived that the house was about double the size of Madam Red's town home.

It was no exaggeration to say that by the time they had walked up the path and were standing at the house's entrance, an inferno had taken hold of his nerves. Noticing his paleness and the way he shifted the fan he held from hand to brown kid-gloved hand, Madam Red reached over and poked her "sister", causing him to twitch and yelp. "Grell, _calm down_," the true and experienced noblewoman hissed. "Just try to remember everything I've taught you, and if you aren't sure, you need only to follow my lead. And most importantly – _don't speak_."

And with these final admonishments, she extended her arm and rapped smartly on the door.

Grell hardly had time to yank down the edge of the maroon hat he wore over his anxious eyes before it opened. From what he was able to see, it was a servant who had answered the knock, a maid. Her countenance was hidden from view by his hat, but her voice revealed that she was quite young. "Good morning. Madams Phantomhive and Durless, is it?"

Madam Red did not hesitate to smoothly respond. "That is correct."

"Come in, please; I will show you to the parlor. Mrs. Harvey is expecting you. Will your driver need any assistance carrying in your bags?"

"I don't believe so; there are merely five cases between us," Madam Red replied, and advanced inside a few steps as the maid held open the door. Grell however had gone rigid, and, scarcely breathing, stood planted outside, staring at Madam Red's back as she moved away from him.

Realizing that her companion was not with her, the scarlet-clad woman turned, and it required everything in her power not to roll her eyes and sigh. With a voice laced with an odd gentleness, she called to him. "Rachel. Is everything all right?"

It took a moment for the name, and for what was occurring, to register. Jerking his head, he opened his mouth to reply, but at the last second clamped it shut, remembering the all-too-vital rule. Instead, he nodded weakly.

"Good," came her unusually amiable reply. "Come, then." As Grell slowly and unwillingly ambled into the house, he could hear her explaining to the maid, "Please do not mind my sister if she seems a bit out of sorts – she has been sick of late but insisted on coming."

With his limited vision, Grell followed them as carefully as possible down what seemed to be the front hall, and making a right turn, into a parlor. Seeing that the backs of the women remained turned, he peeked out from under the wide rim of the hat to survey the room. It was a relatively small space, containing rustic furniture and knickknack-filled shelves, with the focus consisting of a low round table adorned by a vase of freshly-cut blooms from the garden. Like in the madam's own home, the rugs and curtains were of a heavy material, but here in rich shades of green. It was a simple yet appealing room, possessing a sort of coziness which Grell had not felt anywhere else.

These observations abruptly ceased however, as the hat was suddenly whisked off his head. In panic, he threw both hands up in an attempt to grab at it, but was met only with empty air. _No-! Come back-!_

"Do not be startled, Rachel; our outdoor wear is only being taken and put away," Madam Red said calmly. "Is it not wonderful to come back to this house so full of dear memories?" Watching the maid proceed to help her out of her duster, Grell quickly slipped out of his own (a dark gray one he was borrowing) and pushed it awkwardly toward the servant before she could come too close to him. Once she had finally exited the room however, Madam Red abandoned the false tone and spoke to him as she always did, her casual look replaced by one of seriousness. "You're doing well so far, I suppose…but do try not to be so easily alarmed. How many times, after all, have you taken and hung up my hat and coat at home? Now quick, cover yourself; she will be here shortly."

Heeding her instructions, he unfolded the black silk fan and held it up to conceal all but his uneasy eyes, heart rate rivaling that of the speediest trains in England. It would only be moments now before they would know if this farce would have any chance of succeeding. She might be old and out of touch with reality somewhat, but how could the madam's grandmother possibly be fooled into believing that he, a clown trying to function outside of the circus tent, was her granddaughter?!

A long few minutes passed, and just when Grell was sure that his agitation would burst forth in the form of tears, their hostess made her entrance. Stopping before them, Mrs. Harvey looked first at Angelina, and then at "Rachel". "The both of you made it, I see," she greeted, her tone warm and genial. "Welcome back, it has been far too long!"

Through his disquietment, Grell regarded his "grandmother". Age had not been so cruel as to diminish her stature – she appeared to be about the same height as Madam Red, and their similar facial features betrayed their relation. The elderly woman's silver hair was pinned up at the crown of her head, and her navy blue dress was not of the current fashionable style, but of a less complicated type only seen outside of the great cities. Grell felt his body go stiff again when her brown-eyed gaze landed on him.

"Yes, it certainly has been, Grandmother!" Madam Red returned hastily, averting the other's attention and smiling. "We are both so glad to have come. It is good to see you well, as you stated in your letter." She embraced Mrs. Harvey, swiftly placing a kiss to her cheek while Grell watched in horror from behind the fan. "I know we will have an enjoyable stay."

"Yes, I am sure that leaving the city for a spell will do you both much good," Mrs. Harvey replied, moving toward Grell. In delight, she faced him, while he pleaded inwardly that she would not come any closer. "My word, Rachel, you have shot up like a tree! How is the family? You did not return my letter to you…"

He couldn't help it; as she moved in on him, he leaned back, eyes wide as saucers. No one had said anything about _this _sort of thing! Overcome by fear, he missed the harried look that came upon Madam Red as she swooped in beside them and laid a hand on the older woman's shoulder. "Grandmother, I am afraid that Rachel is recovering from illness – a rather serious cold and sore throat, you see. As a consequence, she has temporarily lost her voice, and wishes also to keep her condition from spreading to anyone else. Please understand…despite not being entirely well, she was so very set on coming to see you." She cast a glance at Grell. "Isn't that so, Rachel?"

Much too rapidly, he nodded.

"What a pity," Mrs. Harvey said sympathetically, and to Grell's indescribable relief, backed away a step. "Perhaps the country air will be a help to you while you are here. I so wanted to hear about how you are getting on, however! And about that darling boy of yours! How I wish Vincent would consider bringing you all to live closer to Castle Camps; I've missed our conversations." Although unnoticed, Madam Red narrowed her eyes just slightly, the corners of her mouth turning down as all attention was directed to "Rachel". With a silent scoff of repugnance, she looked away at hearing the next words spoken to Grell. "Won't you at least grace me with that beautiful smile that I recall so well?"

_Smile?! Oh, unknowing woman, why must you ask the impossible?! _After a pause of uncertainty, he glanced at Madam Red, whose only response was a nod of affirmation. Mustering up the happiest expression he could given the circumstances, he lowered his shield and, after flashing the briefest of smiles, whipped it back up once more.

"Ah," sighed Mrs. Harvey, "you have not changed in the slightest, Rachel, and for that I am glad. Now," – and here she again addressed both of them – "let us all sit down and have tea. Angelina, since your sister cannot speak, would you be able to inform me of all that has been happening between the both of you?"

As they began moving toward the table and chairs, Grell's mind, overwhelmed to a whole new degree, finally caught up with him. Dropping the fan away again, he looked to Madam Red in open-mouthed amazement. The old woman really _did_ think he was Rachel – slim, blonde, glasses-less (and not to mention dead) Rachel! Rather than being seen straight through, he had only been met with acceptance…an acceptance by means of deceit. In return, the madam only shook her head at him and beckoned, urging him to come and sit.

Once they had taken their places and Mrs. Harvey had ordered tea to be prepared, the conversation between she and Madam Red commenced. Grell found himself quite content with the taciturn aspect of his role, as he would not have known how to respond to much of what was being discussed. They spoke first about the Phantomhives and how young, innocent Ciel was doing (these, of course, were all lies), and then went on to the topic of Madam Red's daily life and occupation. The tea was served not long into the talk, and Grell, although still uncomfortable with being here masquerading as he was, tried to remember Madam Red's instructions in taking afternoon tea. Sips and bites were to be small, and movements deliberate, he recalled. And in this way, despite the obvious shaking of his hand each time he raised the teacup, he was able to progress through the light meal.

But how he could not seem to quiet his nerves, or drive away the visions of disaster that kept assaulting his mind! How long would it be until the madam's grandmother came to her senses? And that maid – what suspicious looks she had given him! What if she would be the one to expose him as a fraud? What if –

" – Rachel!"

The start that this call caused him was a bad one indeed. Caught unawares, Grell, whose unhappy musings had led him to stare off into space, jumped wildly in his seat, and a hot, scalding sensation was promptly felt all over his right hand, seeping through the glove he wore. At the same time, splashing was heard, and when he looked, a brown stain was spreading fast over the white linen tablecloth.

Filled at once with sickened terror, he dropped the cup he had previously been holding, agonized cries of self-loathing already forming in his throat. All that escaped was a croak however, before a hand came crashing down over his mouth.

"Mmfph!"

Madam Red was near him suddenly, her face wrought with panic. "No Rachel, you mustn't strain your voice! Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you!" Although she professed concern, Grell could easily detect the underlying glare of warning.

As she slowly eased her hand away, Mrs. Harvey spoke up. "Heavens, Angelina…there was no need for you to give your sister such a scare." Turning to Grell, she went on kindly, "Now don't fret about the spill, dear…such an incident does not spell the end of the world. Why don't you go on and clean yourself up?"

His hand soaked with wasted Darjeeling, he found he did not have much of a choice. Madam Red, who was most likely trying to ignore the mild reprimand she had received, was the one to respond however. "Grandmother, please allow me to escort Rachel to the wash basin…it has been so long that I fear she has forgotten where it is."

Mrs. Harvey hesitated, but then consented, and called for the maid to tend to the sopping mess as Madam Red and Grell took their leave. The latter, having forgotten to snatch up his fan on the way out, instantly snapped his head in the opposite direction as said maid passed them in the hall, only to find himself in a collision with the madam's back. Turning, she threw him a black look, but continued to lead him toward the scullery.

No sooner had the door safely shut behind them than the eruption of scoldings began. "_What_ just happened, Grell?! No; I'll tell you what happened. The behavior I saw in there was beyond unladylike. For one, you were fidgeting quite a bit in your seat, and for another, your concentration fell away and you began staring about the room! Didn't I tell you that your attention must not wander? I should not have had to call out to you as I did! Do you know how that made me look?!"

Cowering, he could only cry out, "I am sorry, my lady! I know I have shamed you – if your grandmother thinks badly of you I am entirely to blame!"

"Shush! They will hear you if you make a racket. Now, over there." She pointed to the wash basin, and the melancholy butler stepped toward it, peeling off the drenched and dirtied glove and cooling his overheated hand. "I must go back now or she may become suspicious. Just leave the gloves here and we will get them later. And from here on, _mind yourself_!" So saying this, she marched, grumbling, from the room, leaving him disheartened and alone.

Several minutes later, once he had located a clean rag and used it to wipe off the water, he made his way, bare-handed, back to the parlor. Upon arriving, he saw that the tea-things had been cleared away and the sullied tablecloth removed, leaving only the vase of sweet-smelling flowers behind, but the two ladies were no longer there. Producing a low whine of anguish, Grell retrieved his discarded fan and re-entered the hallway, looking about uncertainly. He was already tired of this charade, tired of being all dolled up, especially with the embarrassing false bosom and the ridiculous bustle. _If I remain undiscovered to the end of this visit, nothing in this mad world will ever again astonish me! Oh, Madam, why must this ring mean so much to you – and when will we see it, anyway?_

At any rate, there was nothing to do now but search for his so-called relatives. After combing the whole of the first floor (how utterly restraining these skirts were!), he at last located them in the drawing room, appearing to be engaged in conversation. Noticing an available chair, Grell began making his way over – but in a hurried moment of forgetfulness quickened his pace, striding in the way he was used to doing in trousers, and the result was unavoidable. Lurching ungracefully, the butler-turned-lady sensed his balance abandon him…at least, until his frantically waving arms found the upright piano.

CLANG!

Everyone jumped, including himself – but at least he did not fall down. As the resounding and spontaneous chord died away, Grell was not at all surprised to find Madam Red glowering at him, while Mrs. Harvey held a hand over her heart.

"Goodness Rachel, I did not know you wished to play for us…but I am afraid the piano needs tuning, so it is not possible at this time. I am so sorry, dear. Come, sit down and join us. Angelina has just offered to help me with the quilt I have been working on." It was only then that he saw that each of them held a sizable patch of fabric in her lap, made up of multiple squares that varied in color and pattern. "Will you not help as well?"

Sirens abruptly sounded in his head. Sew? Him?! Without hesitation he looked at Madam Red. Surely she could invent some excuse!

But to his utmost shock and disbelief, she merely nodded at him and gestured to a nearby basket filled with scraps of cloth and sewing supplies. How could she be serious? This was most definitely _not_ in the contract! Or…was he to simply pretend to sew?

With extreme unwillingness, and with his mouth itching to cry out in protest, he retrieved a segment of the quilt from the basket. Conveniently, an already-threaded needle was stuck into a light blue square, and from the looks of it, someone had left off in the middle of attaching it to the yellow square adjacent. Grell sat down and carefully laid the fabric across his knees. Furtively, he glanced over to the busily sewing women to observe how they held their needles. _How can they do it so easily and so fast?_ he couldn't help but marvel, watching their deft movements and the needles flying in and out of the cloth. Looking back down, he clumsily took up his own needle.

"…and that is why I absolutely refuse to travel by locomotive," Mrs. Harvey was saying, as she concluded a tale about an acquaintance who had suffered from heart complications while riding from Shelford to London (never mind that he had been a frail person to begin with). "By the way, Anne, I have been meaning to ask you – why ever did you chop off that pretty hair of yours? No woman I have ever seen wears it at such an irrational length. Long and swept up is truly the becoming way to keep it – like your sister's, for example."

Had anyone looked closely enough, they would have caught the way Madam Red bristled in her seat at these blunt remarks, but in any case, her chance to reply to the criticism was abruptly stolen away. Across from where she and the older woman sat came a short, stifled cry. When her eyes darted to Grell, she found him with shoulders slightly hunched, biting his lip and staring with a pained expression at his hand.

Immediately guessing what had occurred, but masking her exasperation with a sweetly concerned tone, she gave voice to the impending question. "Rachel, whatever has happened?"

Raising his misery-filled gaze, Grell reluctantly displayed his left hand. Her thoughts were indeed correct: he had managed to prick his finger with the needle, and consequently draw a trickle of blood. Why, oh why had she not been able to predict something like this sooner?!

Mrs. Harvey gasped, but before she could react further, Madam Red quickly spoke up. "Grandmother, please allow me to tend to Rachel's wound…it would seem she is not well enough to focus her energies on handiwork right now."

"…of course, please do," the elderly gentlewoman agreed, and turning to Grell in oblivious compassion, added, "and Rachel, perhaps it would be best if you partake of a…different sort of activity, regaining your health as you are."

Back to the scullery the pretended sisters went, and once more Madam Red wasted no time in expressing her deep displeasure at her cringing accomplice's most recent conduct. One was _never _to touch the piano in another's home unless granted permission! And a lady _never_ had reason to hasten her steps, as he had! Once again, Grell begged for what seemed to him unobtainable forgiveness, only to be fiercely shushed a second time.

"I will admit, however," the madam said begrudgingly as she finished tying a thin strip of cloth around his injured fingertip, "that I am at fault for assuming you could merely hold a needle without sticking yourself…I didn't expect you to actually sew, you know. There; now let's go. You will probably have no choice but to simply sit and listen to us talk now."

This was precisely what Grell found himself doing for the next several hours, and he could safely say that those were the most boring hours of his life. Mrs. Harvey spoke more about her day-to-day existence in Castle Camps, and along with Madam Red recalled many events from their family's history, which he could only feign to remember with occasional nods of his head. When this awful period of sitting at last came to an end, it was well into evening, and time for supper. Although the meal to be consumed was not by any means an elaborate one, he knew that this did not change the rules of table etiquette, and while he tried ardently not to make a spectacle of himself, some mishaps were bound to and did take place. A hot potato that burned his mouth, the glass of cordial which nearly took a tumble, the knife that briefly shrieked against the plate as he attempted to properly cut his portion of Cornish hen. But each time, the odd look which he kept fearing to receive from Mrs. Harvey never came; instead she would only shake her head and smile in pity, commenting that a good night's rest would certainly aid his recovery and leave him in a better state tomorrow.

At long last, the time for slumber arrived, and Grell could not have been any more eager. To be out of the confines of these tight torture devices, even for only a night, would undoubtedly be like time spent in Paradise. Once they had bid goodnight to Mrs. Harvey, he and Madam Red made their way up to the guest bedrooms, where their luggage was found waiting outside of the doors. Having divided and taken hold of their individual cases, the two of them straightened, and looked at each other.

"Good night, Grell," spoke Madam Red, voice hushed, and added, "Just think – half of the visit is over now, and you have seen for yourself just how unsuspecting of you she is. Tomorrow we will have what we need and it will all be over. I will stop in in the morning, to arrange your hair and make sure you are presentable."

"Yes, my lady," he whispered. "Thank you, and please sleep well."

They parted ways, and no sooner had Grell closed and locked the door of his room and lit the oil lamp than he hurriedly reached behind him and undid the sash around his waist, releasing his aching middle from its merciless hold. The stuffing of the bust was next to go, as he unbuttoned the bodice as fast as possible and pulled out the rolled-up socks, hurling them away as though they stung him. The skirt took more work somewhat, what with disconnecting it from the bodice and then fumbling with the bustle, but eventually he was free, and, having dressed himself in his familiar nightshirt, felt the unparalleled bliss at being himself again. Looking around, he couldn't deny that the room he was to use here seemed much more comfortable and appealing to the senses than his own drab and dingy one back in London, but it didn't matter, for he still wished with all his being that he was home. As he slid under the blankets within the strange country darkness, the promised reward – the two days off – momentarily crossed his mind, and he realized with a heavy sort of dullness that he didn't care anymore.

And not far away, as she thought of her dedicated servant, her faultless sister, and of the grandmother in whose eyes she had always been second best, Angelina wondered whether everything had been a mistake.

/

**I usually don't write OCs…but I hope I will do a decent job writing Mrs. Harvey.**

**Now for some more historical notes:**

**I found out while I was researching Victorian fashion that wide-brimmed hats, like Madam Red's in the series, didn't come into style until the 1890s, while I'm pretty sure Black Butler takes place (or starts in) 1888? I guess Yana got that detail wrong, but it worked out for me since it was a convenient way for Grell to hide his face.**

***A bustle is a type of framework that was worn under the back of the skirt to make it look fuller or to keep all the heavy drapery from dragging on the ground. They changed in size and shape during the period when they were popular, and are the reason why women from those years appear to have unnaturally-sized rear ends. I like to think that the one Grell is using doesn't make him look **_**too**_** ridiculous.**

**I feel so bad for him, I really do. XD**

**Chapter 3 will be next. Until then, please drop a review!**


	3. Chapter 3

He had placed his trust in her, as he always did. In this case, it was to guide him through the current circumstance.

He had even started to trust the plan, if only the tiniest bit.

But when he rounded the corner and saw _her_, a jumble of unpleasant feelings – namely those of confusion, panic and betrayal – came welling up within him in one great surge.

For a moment, the young girl, whom in any normal situation he was never _this_ horrified to see, regarded him with perplexity, but upon recognizing his features released an ecstatic grin. "Why, Mister Grell! That dress is so pretty!"

No! _Not Elizabeth!_

"You look so _darling_!" she trilled, far too gleeful for his comfort. Her blue eyes abounded with equal delight. "I don't think I've seen anyone wear something so cute!"

Cute? _Cute?_ The dress that so unfortunately fit him was prim and proper, a day dress designed for a woman, not some frilly, flouncy thing for a girl. But when he glanced down at himself, a revolting sight met his eyes.

He couldn't imagine that he had put it on willingly; most likely he had been kicking and screaming and then blocked out the memory altogether. It was pale violet with pink trim, it was covered in ribbons and bows, it was…_abominable_.

He screamed. Or at least, he tried to, but for some reason no sound came out. Never had he felt like a greater laughingstock – if only in his own mind! Hardly noticing Elizabeth, who was now bouncing toward him and chattering something about curling his hair, the miserable butler searched frantically about him for a means of escape…

…which was only found in the profound blackness that greeted him when his eyes flew open.

Shuddering, Grell stared unseeingly into the dark room, the memory of the unsettling dream much too vivid. Remembering where he was, he inwardly moaned, and pulled the blanket over his head, trying to pretend that his current state of affairs was just a dream as well. But even after managing to calm down some, he found himself unable to fall back to sleep, and at last realized that this was the time of morning when he usually arose anyway. Sighing, he got up, turned on the lamp, and began to dress himself.

Today he was to wear a different skirt, because respected ladies never donned the same ensemble two days in a row, and Madam Red happened to own a multi-layered, beige and maroon-striped one that matched the bodice as well as the first skirt did. Thinking of how much he officially hated the garments (or having to wear them, at least), Grell struggled into his modified outfit. When this was finally done, he proceeded to draw back the window curtains, pull up a chair, and sit down, where he remained staring outside forlornly as the night gradually gave way to dawn.

Soon, knocking sounded at the door, and although it gave him a great scare at first, he recognized Madam's Red voice when she sweetly called out, and allowed her to enter. Minutes later, after she had fixed his hair back into a knot and given him a new, unsoiled pair of suede gloves, Grell trudged behind her out of the room and into the hallway, glum at having to leave his only safe haven in the house.

But as Madam Red started to descend the stairs, something caught the disguised butler's eye. Nearby, a door to what he had previously assumed was another bedchamber had been left ajar, and though he knew it was discourteous to pry, what was visible through the gap plucked his interest.

It was a sky – a wide expanse of sunset orange, touched here and there by other colorful hues of twilight, and looking down upon a dusky green meadow and dim hills beyond.

His engrossment with the dazzling sight was interrupted moments later by the sound of a throat impatiently being cleared. With a weak, apologetic smile at Madam Red, he stepped forward and continued to follow her.

Breakfast was taken in the parlor as tea had been the day before, and once again, Grell found himself the topic of much of Mrs. Harvey's speech. She was so occupied, in fact, with remarking on her elder grandchild's impeccable grace that she failed to note the ironic breaches of etiquette that "Rachel" committed – the worst of these being when he quite stupidly decided to bite into a piece of fruit rather than slice it, causing the juice to squirt halfway across the table as well as into his own face. Peculiarly though, the displeased looks that came from Madam Red were hardly as severe as the glares that she had sent him countless times yesterday, and Grell wondered to himself if she might be starting to give up on him.

When the meal was over, Mrs. Harvey's mail was brought to her by the maid, and although she hesitated to go through the thick pile of envelopes while her guests were present, Madam Red smilingly assured her that they would be fine passing some time on their own. Eventually the aged woman was persuaded, and the two wily granddaughters ushered themselves away, not without a stagger or two from the taller, lumbering one.

"What do you have in mind for us to do now, Madam?" Grell whispered once they were far enough away.

"Whatever we please," she responded, and folded her arms, all traces of her exaggerated amiability now gone. "If you like, you can hide yourself in your room for a while longer, while I look for some sort of amusement…"

"Actually, my lady…if it would not be an inconvenience to you…" started Grell, timid suddenly. "…there is a certain room upstairs that I couldn't help but notice…with a most magnificent picture inside…and more like it, I think." He paused then, with the realization he must sound like he'd been snooping. "Please do not misunderstand – the door was open! I would never in my flightiest dreams think of intruding –"

"Hush!" she interrupted sharply. "You are ill and without a voice – _remember that_! Now – let us go up to this place you are telling me about. I have a feeling that I know what it is."

Upstairs they again ventured, led this time by Grell. The door from before was still halfway agape, and seeing her companion stop beside it and wait, Madam Red approached with a newfound curiosity of her own, and pushed it fully open. What lay beyond captured both their attention right away.

Grell had been correct in that the stunning image he had viewed earlier was not the only one of its kind. From every direction, paintings and sketches in vibrant and dim colors alike overwhelmed his eyes, hanging and leaning on and against the walls. The room held the vague odor of paint, and somewhere among the array of landscapes and human figures Grell absently perceived an open case containing brushes, a used palette, and other tools of an artist. An easel stood off to one side; its stand, however, empty.

"Ah, yes," Madam Red nodded, and stepped further inside, while Grell trailed after, gazing all about him in awe. "I suppose I didn't think to tell you, as it was irrelevant, but my grandmother's lifelong pastime has always been creating works of art. I don't know if you noticed, but a number of her pieces are hung around the house, while the rest are kept here, where she draws and paints…or, where she did, at least; I don't know how often she does it any more. They are all very nice, aren't they?"

He almost didn't hear the casual question, being so captivated by the many breathtaking images around him. "…undoubtedly," he quietly agreed a moment later, when he had found his voice. Together, the two of them leisurely drifted about the studio, perusing the multitude of pictures. Mrs. Harvey was indeed very gifted with brush and pen, as far as Grell could judge, and it struck him as astounding that the old woman who could not distinguish a bumbling man in a dress from her own granddaughter had truly crafted these.

After some time, a question crossed his mind. "Pardon me, my lady, but I was merely pondering…did your grandmother ever create pictures of people or places she knew?"

"Hmm?" Madam Red glanced up from where she had been silently observing a sketch of two small children playing marbles. "…yes, as a matter of fact she did. She painted the seaside at Yarmouth that she and her family would visit each year, and there was another one she did of my mother and aunt as children…but as I recall," she sighed, "she gave that one to Rachel, meaning that it is now lost."

Grell hesitated, uncertain at how to appropriately respond. He wondered what it was like, to always remain in a sibling's shadow in the view of another family member. He wondered _why_. Madam Red had never given a reason for it being that way, and eventually he had come to realize that even she herself didn't know. "Madam…" he began at last, "…please forgive me for my…forwardness, but did you have any good times with your grandmother, any at all?"

Her look was one of great surprise, having been unprepared for the question, but she seemed to recognize it as an innocent one. "…I did," she began, slowly and thoughtfully. "We used to have picnics, the three of us, in the garden or at the park, and she – that is, my grandmother – always remembered to have my favorite kind of pastry made…the raspberry tarts. She also taught Rachel and I to play checkers. For some reason I was always the better one, and I remember her telling me on one occasion how good I was." She stopped in reflection, clearly re-living those treasured, bygone times, and Grell was secretly pleased to see the faint hint of a smile that tugged at her lips. "And…oh, how could I have forgotten…I used to keep a scrapbook of dried flowers and plants in those days, and each time I came, she would take me outside and let me choose a few blossoms from the garden to add to my collection, since she grew certain kinds that we didn't have back home." The wistful look she wore became even more so as this last distant memory was brought back to light, but it soon faded, and was replaced by a sour, though somewhat sad frown. "But it was still Rachel who received most of her favor. And I felt…as if I was the only one who noticed or cared."

_My dear lady…could it be possible that you came here not only for the reason you said you did…but to make amends, somehow, too?_

Sighing in dejection, Madam Red headed back toward the door. "Anyway, I think it's time we went downstairs. She is probably finished reading through the mail by now, and will be coming to find us." With an inner sigh of his own, Grell reluctantly but obediently followed her out of the studio and downstairs.

At the bottom of the staircase, their hostess appeared before them almost at once. Bearing a brilliant smile, she spoke. "My dears, I have just had a splendid idea. To pass some time, why don't we all go into the yard for a round of croquet?"

The sirens were back, screeching and wailing throughout every square inch of his brain. Alarm overtaking him, Grell immediately turned fearful eyes to Madam Red. He had never played a game of croquet before – not once! – and he knew that she was fully aware of this. Surely she would find a polite way to decline; after all, the prospect of him with a mallet and ball was…he didn't even want to think about it.

It was fortunate that the fan was concealing his face, for the sight of his jaw plummeting as it did was anything but dignified. Nodding, Madam Red replied, a little too cheerfully, "That is an excellent idea, Grandmother! Rachel and I would love to play. When shall we begin?"

"Marvelous!" the old woman said with happiness. "We will begin shortly. Let me call Francine and have her prepare the lawn. Please wait for me out back." She faced Grell then, and her smile became even warmer, the next words she spoke only making him feel even more faint. "I look forward to seeing that superb croquet shot of yours, Rachel!"

A moment later, she was gone, and Grell wasted no time in dissolving into a fit of sobs. Indifferent to this show of despair, Madam Red retrieved their hats and, beckoning, then led him through the first floor and outside to the rear lawn. Only when they had arrived did his emotions finally cascade over in the form of words.

"But M-M-Madam! I have never touched a croquet mallet in the entire span of my pitiable, insignificant life! I can't do this!" he fretted uncontrollably. Like the sewing, it was an activity that had NOT been agreed to when the contract had been written. _Why must you do this to me, my lady?!_

"Well, then let me take this time to familiarize you with the fundamentals," his younger "sister" replied shortly, obviously not in the mood for his hysterics. "You should not be completely clueless as to the game, anyway; you have seen me play it with others plenty of times."

That much was true. He couldn't remember how many times he had stood by, or laid out tea at a nearby table, while she and her acquaintances played croquet in the small backyard at home. The last match had been the most memorable, when her opponent had been young, charming Mr. Thomas Pratt, a teller at the Royal Bank. Everyone knew however, that croquet was a game of flirtations when both sexes were involved, and Grell had right away determined that the way Mr. Pratt looked at Ms. Durless was most immoral. To show the sinful-minded gentleman that he knew of his indecent thoughts, the cunning butler had furtively kicked one of the wooden balls out of position when it was the guest's turn – only to be yelled at by Madam Red as a result.

Quickly, she explained to him the basic rules, and although he tried to listen attentively, the feeling of intense unease that crept through him refused to go away. As the maid and Mrs. Harvey came out of the house, Grell pulled the wide brim of his borrowed hat down over his eyes, and it occurred to him then that the game would only be more challenging with his vision so obscured. Despite this and his profusion of other worries however, he had to admit that it was nice to be outdoors. The country air was, indeed, a welcome refreshment to anyone who came from the foul, stinking atmosphere of the city.

When the hoops and peg had been embedded into the grass, each of the players took hold of a mallet. It was all Grell could do not to bite his nails in apprehension as he watched the tosses of the coin, hoping desperately that he would not have the first turn – but luckily, that honor fell to Madam Red. Fluidly, she made her first stroke, the ball cleanly running the first hoop. Mrs. Harvey, the second player in the sequence, then stepped up, her ball coming to a stop just before it could roll through. And then came Grell's turn.

A sudden swarm of butterflies gathering in his stomach, he took position at the starting point. Tilting his head back momentarily to see past the maroon hat, he glanced up in the direction of the hoop. As carefully and as precisely as he could, he struck the ball, a sharp _clack_ ringing out, and away it went, running the hoop and coming to rest by the one hit by Madam Red.

Deeply, he exhaled, releasing the breath he had forgotten he was holding. So far, so good; no one had gotten hurt, and nothing had blown up. Looking to Madam Red, he gave a shaky smile, which she returned with a nod of encouragement.

The next couple rounds proceeded without incident, although Grell found the maelstrom of butterflies to be flapping away relentlessly each time it was his turn. He was glad to be last in the sequence, so that he could observe from his companions' movements the order of the hoops on the field, and even though he was so far losing, he didn't care as long as he could avoid causing any sort of havoc. It seemed he was actually about to score another point – there went the ball, right through the hoop!

"Goodness Rachel, was that deliberate?" Grell looked up to find the two ladies staring at him, Mrs. Harvey in befuddled interest and Madam Red in what appeared to be silent exasperation, if he was to judge by her downturned mouth and hand which rested on her hip. He blinked, not understanding his "grandmother's" question.

"Rachel," Madam Red began, in a strained effort to sound patient, "I believe your illness might still be affecting you, for you have just hit the ball through the hoop in the wrong direction."

At this, Grell's head instantly dropped, and it was all he could do not to cry out and acknowledge the shame he felt, despite the mistake being an honest one for a beginner like himself. _I am truly beyond pathetic! Even an amateur should possess enough sense to know that much! I am disgrace to Rachel's memory; no doubt she is looking down from Heaven at this very moment and spitting at me!_

"I think it is a pardonable error though, wouldn't you say?" Mrs. Harvey interjected. "Let us consider, as you have said, that she is still recovering." To Grell, she spoke with comforting reassurance. "Come now, don't be disheartened. Why don't you do that stroke over again?"

So perhaps it wasn't the game-destroying mistake that he had initially presumed it to be. Swallowing down his unvoiced cries, Grell did as she suggested, and they continued.

Some time elapsed, and soon, it was more than half over. Madam Red was in the lead, easily making the second circuit of hoops, while Mrs. Harvey just barely kept ahead of Grell, who somehow managed not to fall too far behind the other, experienced players. The disguised butler, both unnerved and tired, was sure by now that time had slowed down just to spite him, as it had never seemed to crawl along at such an torturous pace before. It being his turn once again, he aimed at the next hoop as best as his partial view would permit him, and mallet met ball. A few seconds later, an unexpected sound was heard.

"Look at that, Rachel, you've earned yourself a croquet shot!" he heard Madam Red exclaim in a show of enthusiasm. He looked, and to some delight saw that the ball had hit one of the others lying on the grass, causing them both to drift a short distance. What did this mean again? Oh yes, now he remembered: as Madam Red had explained it, this allowed the player two extra turns, the first being the "croquet shot", which Rachel had apparently been very good at. Grell tentatively made his way over, and after positioning the balls beside each other, briefly surveyed the field, attempting to think strategically through his ever-present tension. If he could hit that other ball over there, the blue one, he could force it farther away from the hoop and rob his opponents of a previously easy shot. The swing would require a bit more strength than usual, as the distance was somewhat far, but what did it matter? – it wasn't as if he actually expected to win this game.

As much as he could, he steadied himself, trying to focus. Sucking in a deep breath, he drew back the mallet, and in one sudden, vigorous motion, swung it forward.

WHACK!

The earsplitting crack of wood against wood made all three of them start. The ball, a streak of yellow, bolted over the ground. Grell could already see that his aim hadn't been accurate, and watched with some disappointment as it whizzed past the blue one, past the hoop…past the boundary of the playing field…and over the pathway leading from the back door. It bounced once on the ground…and it was only then that he saw, with a stomach-churning dread, how close to the house – and to that flowerpot – it had flown.

Time stood still.

_No-!_

But the shattering of ceramic was painfully real, and painfully loud. He stared at the white, jagged-edged fragments of the flowerpot, at the spilled soil, at the upset nasturtiums falling upon one another in a dirt-showered heap. The croquet ball, its speedy journey at last interrupted by the stone wall of the house, softly came to a stop nearby.

From somewhere behind him, one of the ladies – he couldn't even tell which – gasped, and Grell could not prevent himself from whimpering aloud. _I've done it! Now I've truly done it! The old woman will surely hate me; she will know I am not Rachel, for Rachel could never have been the destructive oaf I am! And she will turn against the madam too, for daring to blaspheme her sister's good name on an utter stranger! Oh, why waste any more time…it's obvious that I shall never be forgiven again, so I must end it all right here…with a death most excruciating, as I deserve!_

Clutching the croquet mallet, he began to lift it above his head. But before he could deal himself the fatal blow, the women rushed forward, and Madam Red grabbed his arm.

"Rachel – how –" she started, but broke off, clearly at a loss at how to publicly rebuke him while pretending he wasn't her butler.

"Goodness Rachel, you certainly brought along a…singular sort of luck when you came here," Mrs. Harvey spoke, and Grell found to his astonishment that her tone was anything but harsh. The look of shock she had displayed at first had gradually melted into the familiar sympathy. "There there dear, do not let it plague you. What happened was only due to some queer sort of chance, without doubt; do not think for a moment that I mean to hold it against you." She smiled at them both then and nodded toward the house. "Let us leave all this behind us now and go inside. Luncheon should be served soon."

Turning her back, she started toward the door. Dazed, and unable to believe that the traumatizing incident had been excused so readily, Grell slowly raised the brim of his hat and glanced over at Madam Red. With a look just as dumbfounded, she glanced back.

Rachel too, he was convinced, was up there shaking her head in a sad sort of wonder.

/

"A 'queer sort of chance' indeed," Madam Red muttered. Her hands dexterously shuffled the deck of playing cards, the resulting _shfff_ sound cutting the air. "If only she knew how pitifully commonplace it is for you to cause such trouble." It was now early afternoon, and she and Grell were sitting in the drawing room. Lunch had been something of a dull affair, the only notable events being when Grell had accidentally kicked Madam Red under the table when sitting down, and when he had accidentally scratched his head, an act most unfeminine. When it was over Mrs. Harvey had retired upstairs for a rest, which, she explained, was part of her daily routine and usually only lasted a couple of hours. It was just as well, as both of the mentally exhausted visitors were ready to drop the act for a while.

Grell had nothing to say in response to her comment. He was very much aware of how unhappy she was and wished fervently that he could make her feel better, but he didn't know how. Perhaps acquiring that ring would be the only way.

"At least we are leaving today, my lady," he whispered at last.

"I know," she replied wearily, and began to deal the cards for a game of Trumps.

They played three rounds, all of which he lost. Afterward, Madam Red began a game of Patience while Grell wandered in the direction of the bookcase, where he listlessly began to browse. And it was here, as he was leafing through _The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club_ by one Charles Dickens, that something slipped between the pages caught his eye.

He caught the folded, yellowed piece of paper before it could flutter to the floor, and, without thinking too much about it, opened it up, resting the book in the crook of his arm. It was an old piece of parchment indeed, the edges starting to crumble and the folds so worn that it seemed ready to fall apart. Handling it as delicately as he could, Grell observed that on it a letter had been composed, the ink faded to brown over the passing of years. His curiosity getting the better of him, he brought the document closer to his face, and began to read the intricate, feminine script:

_The 15__th__ of May, 1868_

_My dear Charles and Violet,_

_It was wonderful to see you and the girls this past month. Each of your visits leaves me with more and more fond memories._

_I have enclosed this book from my personal treasury for you all to enjoy, since I remember, Violet, how you mentioned to me that you could not locate it in your own. I believe Rachel and Angelina will find it just as enthralling a story as you once did, as they both love to tell me all about the books they read at home._ Grell smiled as he read that, thinking of Madam Red's expansive collection of novels back in London. _They are such fine girls and I always cherish my time spent with them. Rachel shows signs already of becoming an exceptional lady someday, but I must confess that I am a bit worried –_

There was a sudden deep sigh and the sound of cards being gathered, and he looked up, startled, to see Madam Red reassembling the deck and putting it away into its box. Carefully, Grell re-folded the fragile letter and stuffed it back within the book. As the restless noblewoman sat back, letting her eyes roam about the room, he wondered if he ought to sit down with her again – when suddenly, she spied the work of literature in his hand. "What is that you have there?" she asked, straightening up with interest.

He walked over and held out the volume, allowing her to take it. "'_The Pickwick Papers_'!" she exclaimed. "Why, I remember this. My grandmother lent us this very copy once, long ago, and then it mysteriously disappeared; my parents must have eventually sent it back to her, and I never saw it again." She opened it up, glossing over the pages much like Grell had done, and he respectfully stepped back and turned away, letting her reminisce over the classic story in peace. He wondered if she would come across the letter, and if she did, how she would react to it; it was hard to say, especially since he hadn't been able to finish reading it himself.

For several moments, he stood looking absently out the window, listening to the sound of moving pages behind him. Soon, the sound ceased, and in its place a long silence fell. Grell, sure that he knew what had happened, glimpsed over his shoulder. His suspicions were confirmed; she had found and was quietly reading through the old document, though her nearly expressionless face made any thoughts she may have had indiscernible.

"I do hope you girls were not lacking in entertainment while I was gone?"

With a great twitch of fright, Grell whirled around. Mrs. Harvey stood just inside the doorway, her hands folded before her, smiling gaze alternating between the two younger people in the room. Grell found his silk fan and threw it up over his face, and then shook his head at her rapidly. "I am glad to hear it," she said, coming further inside, and continued, "I believe that now would be the best time to let the both of you claim the items that you came for." She paused before laughing a bit to herself. "It seems I left them behind in my chamber; shall we all go up together?"

At this, Grell perked up, and at once cast his eyes to Madam Red, fully expecting to see her do the same. But to his confusion, she gave hardly a reaction at all…at least, not to what had just been said.

Instead, she appeared to remain distracted by the letter still gripped in her hands, eyes trained on it unmovingly and face awash with what could only be called disturbance. At last, she raised her head, regarding each of them in turn without a change in expression, before her mouth finally twisted into a disconcerted frown and, brow furrowing, she abruptly rose from her chair.

"I'm sorry, Grandmother," she spoke, and though she tried to keep her voice void of emotion, Grell could tell that she was straining to hold something back, some kind of…bitterness. Or was it pain? "I don't feel well; I must go and rest, just for a bit. Something seems to have come over me…excuse me." Carelessly, she tossed the letter onto a table, and without another word brushed past a startled Mrs. Harvey, exiting the drawing room. The sound of her quick-paced footsteps as she headed for the stairs receded and then disappeared.

A moment later, Mrs. Harvey turned her bewildered face toward Grell, and he tensed, realizing to his extreme horror and anxiety that he was now alone with his temporary relative. "How very odd," the aged woman mused aloud. "Anne showed no signs of feeling ill before. Perhaps I should send Francine up to tend to her?"

His heart pounding, and careful to keep his features guarded by the fan, Grell inched away from where he stood and over to the area Madam Red had occupied. That letter…there must be something terribly awful written in it that had upset her, and he would never be able to rest until he knew what it was. To his ever-increasing discomfort, Mrs. Harvey took note of his movement and trailed after him, babbling on about how hard it must be for city dwellers to adjust to a cleaner environment. Resolving to accomplish his intention despite her presence, he snatched up the paper, and swiftly scanned through the first part until he found where he'd left off.

…_but I must confess that I am a bit worried for Angelina…while she does seem exceptionally intelligent, I fear that it is of the wrong sort. As I am sure you know, she talks about wanting to study medicine, about having a career…I have never known a girl to focus her energies into such unnatural ideas. I only hope that Rachel will be a good influence on her, and guide her in becoming a proper, true lady, instead of leaving her to chase such a senseless dream…_

He was never able to remember what the rest of the letter said – remarks about other family members, perhaps, followed by customary closing comments – but he did recall the signature at the bottom, the name which had obviously been penned with a great sweeping flourish: Edythe Harvey.

Madam Red's feelings were an enigma to him no longer. The words had, without question, created a fresh wound on the crimson woman's soul, despite having been written so long ago. Like wildfire, an almost unbearable frustration spread throughout Grell's being. _The madam's heart is surely aching in unfathomable sorrow! Oh, if only I were not forbidden to speak…what words I would -!_

"What is that you have found, Rachel?" She was leaning over now, far too close, and forgetting his indignation for a second, he jumped. In an effort to re-establish some distance between them, he pushed the letter toward her, at the same time stepping away uneasily. Mrs. Harvey took the paper, and holding it up, proceeded to examine it. After a moment, she silently began to read the letter through.

Finally, it seemed she had reached the end, and a long pause followed. A great solemnity hung about the elderly woman, unlike any mood Grell had witnessed in her thus far, and if he was not mistaken, a hint of distress was there as well. She looked up at him.

"Come," she spoke, slowly. "Let us go up to my room. I will give you what is yours – and there is something which I must tell you."

/

**I don't know if Rachel and Madam Red's parents' names were ever mentioned in the series (I have no idea what's going on in the manga these days), so I just invented my own names for them. Also, it turns out that "Patience" is what people outside of the U.S. call the card game Solitaire. In the United Kingdom, Solitaire is a board game with pegs. I didn't know any of that until writing this chapter.**

**What is the big secret that is about to be revealed to Grell? How many more embarrassing moments will he have before going home? And, why do I seem to make these characters sit around and read mail so much? Except for that last one, find out in the next (and last) chapter!**


	4. Chapter 4

Grell could scarcely hush his anxious and unsteady breathing as he followed Mrs. Harvey upstairs to her chamber. It was nigh impossible to predict just how the next few minutes – or longer – would turn out; he hadn't counted on being left to his own devices for so long, or at all, really. What if he accidentally did something outlandish and she saw through him?! He couldn't believe that Madam Red had abandoned him without a second thought, even if she was upset…oh, he would give anything, anything in this entire world which despised him so very much, for her to reappear and fly to his rescue…

When they had ascended the staircase, Grell having gripped the railing in trepidation all the way, the lady of the house turned and started in the direction opposite from where the guest rooms were located. The unhappy butler threw a glance down toward Madam Red's door, but any hopes he may have had were dashed, as it was and remained firmly shut. Wobbling a bit and catching himself on the wall, he continued to uneagerly trail Mrs. Harvey as she went around a corner, where eventually she stopped and opened up a door. It was the place of his ultimate demise – he just knew it – but having no choice, he shuffled inside the room after her nonetheless.

It was an apartment quite similar to his own temporary one, containing a sprawling, flower-patterned rug over a hardwood floor and the same antiquated style of furniture, but a little bigger and giving off the distinct impression that, unlike the guest chambers, this one was very much lived in. Grell halted in his tracks, abashed suddenly at his intrusion into such a personal space. He was not a servant in _this_ house, after all…

Behind him, Mrs. Harvey closed the door, the rest of the world now effectively sealed out, much to the imposter's chagrin. She then made her way to her dresser (which, Grell could not help noticing, was not littered with nearly as many perfumes and other cosmetics that Madam Red's was at home) and, after setting down the letter, opened up one of the tiny drawers of a timeworn jewelry box. He watched as she took something he couldn't see from within, and with the object closed inside her fist, she turned back toward him, and gestured with her other hand at two blue bolstered chairs situated by a window.

"Shall we sit?"

Refusal unfortunately not an option, he carefully took a seat, the swishing skirt he wore bunching around him as he did so. Adjusting her chair so it partially faced his, Mrs. Harvey too sat down, and despite having transformed into a living, breathing (or hardly breathing, thanks to this accursed waistband) bundle of nerves, Grell found himself wondering just what sort of information she had to impart to him, for the atmosphere surrounding her remained as grave as ever.

Emitting a profound sigh, she cast a distant look out the window. Then, her solemn gaze found his antsy one, which peeped over the rim of the fan. "Here it is, Rachel," she spoke, and extended her hand toward him, unwrapping it from around the object.

He looked down. It was unmistakable – this was the ring which Madam Red pined for, just as she had described it. The band was silver and thin, though dulled somewhat from wear, and atop it proudly rested a garnet stone, a deep, rich red and cut into a perfect oval. _It is no wonder the madam desires this thing...how well it would match her wardrobe, merely enhancing her eternal splendor!_ With uncertain fingers, he took the ring, half-scared that he would somehow crush it, and brought it a bit closer for a better view.

After a few moments, his companion again spoke. "You may be pondering why this is being given to you rather than your sister." Grell's attention was immediately diverted away from the ring and back to its longtime owner; this could be information of much interest. "I don't know if you recall," she went on, "but when you were both very young, an…incident occurred." Here her voice became sad. "It was…a confrontation between myself and your mother. You must have been about six years old, and – you witnessed it." She looked at him, the pain in her brown eyes evident. "Do you remember?"

He paused, and then shook his head.

"It is probably for the best that you don't," she sighed. "Truthfully, I was hoping that you wouldn't. It happened in this house, in this very room. I had acquired that ring from a jeweler in Cambridge after a visit there, and when I first bought it your mother, my dear daughter Violet, had right away agreed with me that it was quite a magnificent thing. But then, many years later, it suddenly went missing, and it happened to be at one of the times when she and your family were up here staying with me for a weekend. I remembered how much she had always admired it, and knowing that she had always possessed a flighty sort of carelessness, it almost didn't surprise me that she might do such a thing, even as a grown woman. I thought she might possibly try to impress your father with it. I became suspicious, and soon, I became angry…"

"_Violet, you know very well that it was wrong of you to touch my belongings without permission. You are no longer a child!"_

"_But I have told you, Mother, I did not take it! You may search all my things – I do not have it! Perhaps Rachel or Angelina got hold of it?"_

"_I can't believe it, for neither of them are tall enough to reach up here to my dresser. I have asked everyone else in this house and no one has seen it. Just return it to me, and all will be forgiven."_

"_I am sorry, but I don't know where it is! It is the same no matter how many times you ask!"_

_SLAP!_

"…neither of us noticed, until it was too late, that you had followed us upstairs and were watching our spat from the doorway. When I realized you had seen me lay a hand on your mother, the guilt I felt was almost too much to bear. I think you might have even cried a little. We later found the ring in a servant's room, my old housekeeper's, and she was dismissed straight away, but things were never quite the same between Violet and I after that, and then eventually she succumbed to the typhoid fever. And as for you…I felt that I was a monster in your eyes. I couldn't do enough to show you that I was not, am not, a wicked person or someone to be feared. So I gave you everything…showered you with attention and love. And now I am giving you this. Although your mother wanted it as her own someday, I stubbornly kept it from her, but now – perhaps in this way I can make my final amends to both her and to you."

The tale at an end, Grell found himself speechless. He had not been prepared for such a deep, affecting narrative, and for all his love of drama, this was much too personal to the woman before him to make it at all enjoyable. He felt ashamed, sinful even, for letting this intimate family matter be related to him when in reality it was none of his business whatsoever. _I am a scoundrel…a disgusting, heinous scoundrel whose trickery is of the most abhorrent kind! This is not for me to hear! _The hand containing the ring which had caused so much grief lay limp on his lap as he allowed his mind to rage against itself, his hidden face contorting in distress.

Shifting her sorrowful gaze to the side, Mrs. Harvey went on. "And I know I have not been fair to Angelina for a long time. I always did what I could to make her feel welcome, but when you were also present, I just couldn't help myself; I couldn't forget what I had done. Your sister must think horribly of me now, but in truth, even though I disagreed with her interest in studying medicine, I never loved her any less." She looked back to Grell, and he could tell by her plaintive, tearful eyes and the heavy way she spoke that every word was sincere. "Do you think," she asked, somewhat haltingly, "that this might be the time to relate everything to Angelina, now that I have done so to you?"

Even if she didn't, Grell knew full well that he would find himself telling Madam Red the entire story anyway, but it would probably be much more meaningful if she heard it from her grandmother. The words, although not above a whisper, could not be stopped. "Yes, please do."

"Rachel! Is your voice returning?"

Grell knew that he had spoken; he knew it but simply could not hold his tongue any longer, not when the conversation now pertained to the madam in such a significant way. Besides, if he only whispered, his true tone of voice would still be unheard. "…perhaps, just a bit," he responded in the same way, trying hard to persuade himself that what he was doing would not turn out to be a regrettable mistake.

"How wonderful that is; I knew that being out of the city would aid in your recovery," Mrs. Harvey smiled, nodding in approval. But this pleasure was fleeting, and before long the look of deep-seated heartache and remorse returned to her features, her mind doubtlessly turning to thoughts of her younger granddaughter again. "I can only hope that Anne will accept my gift to her, but perhaps it will be a help as I explain everything…and apologize. Would you like to see it, Rachel?"

It struck Grell then that what with all the agitation and dread he had engaged himself with while preparing for this whole devious prank, he had completely forgotten to ask Madam Red just what Mrs. Harvey's gift to _her_ was. _Does she even know, I wonder?_

"Yes, please," he whispered. "I would."

/

It would not be long now – only a few hours more, and their stay at Castle Camps would at last reach its (in)glorious end. Only one last event remained looming before him, and that was afternoon tea, no doubt the final test of survival. Grell took a moment to utter a short, soundless prayer for mercy as he began the trip downstairs; he just couldn't stand the notion of his second pair of borrowed gloves being needlessly sacrificed to more piping hot tea. To his mild surprise, Madam Red came out from her room then to join him, and hearing the way she spoke, he realized with some puzzlement that her wits seemed to have returned as sharp as ever, any hint of gloom totally wiped away.

They found the light meal being laid out not in the parlor, but at a small round table set up outside behind the house, just steps away from the lawn where the croquet match had been held. When smiles had been exchanged by the two ladies (much effort put into it by both) and Madam Red had assured everyone that she was feeling well again, the three of them sat and drew their attention to the tea (chamomile this time) and biscuits. Each of them had reclaimed their hats on the way out, and only when Francine had finally left them was Grell able to tilt the wide maroon brim a bit in order to successfully locate his utensils.

"Rachel's voice is starting to return, did you know, Angelina?" Mrs. Harvey cheerfully announced, and Grell promptly spluttered on his sip of tea in dismay. Coughing and gasping, he blindly searched for his napkin, only to remember that it was on his lap.

"Is it really, now?" he heard Madam Red say, as he frantically wiped his mouth in what was most probably an unladylike fashion. Although he considered himself lucky that her expression was blocked from his view, her suspicion was both heard and felt, and he fumbled uncomfortably with the napkin, folding it over and spreading it across his lap again.

"Yes," the older woman replied, "though she cannot yet raise her voice above a whisper. Goodness, are you all right, Rachel?"

Grell nodded, staring down at his untouched food in embarrassment.

The next several minutes lagged by. Picking at his biscuits and trying to keep from making noise, Grell listened to Mrs. Harvey attempt to make lighthearted conversation with Madam Red, but it was clear that the latter did not harbor the same enthusiasm for discussion. Without doubt she remained stung by the old letter, and Grell could do nothing but earnestly pray that her feelings would soon soften. _Oh, Madam...please, please find it in yourself to understand, when you learn the truth...!_

At long last, the subject slowly began to surface. "Angelina, my dear…" Mrs. Harvey started, and then hesitated, but only for a moment. "…not long ago, while you were resting, I was speaking to Rachel about the past, and about one incident in particular. I think it is only right that you be told as well."

Snatching a glimpse of Madam Red, Grell could see that her attention had definitely been seized by this statement. Her eyes flashed over at him for an instant before reverting back to the other. "What is that, Grandmother?" she asked, unable to mask a somewhat wary curiosity.

It was plain that Mrs. Harvey was trying to choose her words with utmost care. "Well, you may recall, as you grew up, that you did not receive quite the same sort of…consideration…from me that Rachel did."

There was a pause, one thick and heavy. Grell watched in nervous apprehension as Madam Red absorbed the words. When the younger woman spoke, it was with a forced indifference, not unlike the peculiar way she had addressed them right after reading the letter. "…I am not sure what you mean."

"Oh, Anne…I know that you received an unfair portion of my attention." The other's difficulty in articulating the statement was painfully apparent.

The response to this was stiff, and Grell knew that the conversation was now really starting to touch on Madam Red's nerves…or perhaps her heart. The atmosphere took on a sudden tension, even more tangible than before. "I may have recognized that, I will admit, but Rachel always was the more…charming one, I suppose."

"Please, don't think that even for an instant. I will tell you all there is to know about what was happening back then, and you may ask me anything…"

The tension spiked. Her tone immediately becoming cold, Madam Red returned, "Then please permit me to start with this question: if it was Rachel who had decided to have a career, instead of me, would my rank have risen any higher?"

"Please, _stop! _My lady, it's not how you think!"

How marvelous it felt, to loudly and clearly exercise his voice, the voice that had lain in such dormant agony for the past twenty-four hours!

His…voice…

Never had he detested the sound of it more than he did then.

To Grell's utter mortification, the heads of the women at once turned toward him, the sensitive exchange taking place abruptly screeching to a halt. For a moment the two of them appeared only stunned, but in less time than it took to blink, each took on a new look entirely: Madam Red's of nearly frenzied alarm, Mrs. Harvey's somewhat repelled and not a little stupefied.

It was over. The pressure had been too great, the damage now irreversible. In one moment, it was all over, and he knew that very shortly he would be a dead man in a dress, likely to give the poor, unsuspecting workers at the morgue quite a shock. A deafening silence crashed down upon the scene, and Grell could hear nothing else as he clamped both hands over his mouth, which had dropped open and now gaped quite fish-like. His eyes resembled those of the same creature, and his heart, thumping violently, might just kill him before Madam Red did.

Caving to his instincts, he let his mind take flight – only for his body to follow suit.

"EXCUSE ME!" he screamed, drowning out the resounding silence, and jumped up. The motion was so forceful that his chair at once tipped over, but with his bottled-up stress at last unleashed Grell did not take notice until it was too late. Without hesitation he turned around – but was only able to take a single step before tripping over his fallen seat. Deprived of balance, the butler-in-disguise went tumbling toward the ground which much too eagerly rose up to greet him.

_Am I not dead yet?!_

Amidst a flurry of skirts, he struggled to right himself, at the same time hearing movement accompanied by cries from behind, and a moment later someone grabbed his arm. Grell jerked, and saw that it was a grim-faced Madam Red, as irked as he had ever seen her. Unwillingly, he allowed her to tug him up until he was again standing, albeit onto legs that wouldn't stop shaking.

"Rachel, are you hurt?! Have you been scraped or bruised?! Rachel, please look at me!...oh…my…"

He shouldn't have looked at her. It was the worst thing he could have done, especially when he could distinctly sense that something else was wrong, that something was…missing. And it was only now, staring into Mrs. Harvey's disbelieving face, that he realized it – realized that his hat was gone, his unfeminine features bared to the world.

He couldn't move, or breathe.

"Why…you aren't Rachel at all, are you?" she asked slowly, her wide eyes glued to him steadfastly. "I dare say…I don't think you are even a woman. No, you're not." His entire face aflame, Grell hung his head, consumed by more humiliation than he could ever recall experiencing. Madam Red's hand, still latched onto the sleeve of his grass-stained and rumpled dress, tightened its grip, though he hardly felt it.

"Grandmother," he finally heard her say, and her strained voice was filled to the brim with shame. "Please let me explain. This is my fault, not his. I don't know how to say this, but…"

"No Anne, wait. I believe I know already. I remember now. Someone once told me – I don't know who, or when it was – that Rachel was…gone…that something tragic had happened, and she…" A crack came into her voice, and she stopped.

"Yes, it's true," Madam Red murmured.

"…and yet here you are, trying so very hard to keep my spirits up by pretending she is still with us. I see now…it all makes sense. But then, who is this gentleman? Your husband?"

Hastily, Madam Red released his arm, and it took every ounce of Grell's strength to keep himself from collapsing in one great theatrical swoon. _Oh, my heart – it's going to give out -! _Swaying dangerously, he caught himself on the edge of the table before gravity could pull him down a second time.

"No, he is not," Madam Red quickly replied, and then paused. "He is…a friend."

His flustered state slowly beginning to dissolve, Grell turned his eyes to her, and gazed.

"Well, in any case, dear, your motives in coming here were of a good nature," spoke up the older woman warmly, and the exposed impersonator started after a moment, having realized that she was speaking to him. "That is a quality I appreciate, despite the idea you two invented being so…unconventional."

Shakily, he smiled.

"And now, Anne," Mrs. Harvey announced, re-focusing her attention back to her true granddaughter. "I still have not given you the answers that I meant to; the answers you deserve. But before I do so, perhaps I should give you your gift."

The red woman blinked. "My…? Oh…yes, I nearly forgot..."

"If you will wait just a moment, I shall bring it out," smiled the old woman, and so saying this, turned and swept into the house. When she reappeared, in her hands was a picture in a frame, about twenty or so inches wide and almost as tall. She held it before her with the back turned out, preventing any view of the actual image.

"This is for you, Angelina," she said simply, and turned the picture around.

It depicted a girl, a young girl, sitting in what appeared to be a patch of bright green grass, the white skirt of her ribbon-trimmed dress billowing around her, and her back partially but not completely turned to the viewer. Scattered about her lay a multitude of flowers of varying types and shades - poppies, chrysanthemums, zinnias – with one specially plucked yellow petunia resting up behind her ear. And before her, spread open across the ground, was a book, a book with what looked like more flowers adorning its pages, the girl delicately touching – or perhaps adding – one inside. Sunlight splashed down upon the scene, the shadows few and subtle.

The girl's hair, falling halfway down her back in two braids, was red.

For many moments, all was still. When Grell, holding his breath, dared to glance at his madam, he saw that her staggered eyes were locked unswervingly upon the image, her countenance just the slightest bit pale. Undoubtedly she recognized the child, just as Grell had when he had first laid eyes upon the painting hardly an hour before. When she at last spoke, he could hear the just barely existent quiver in her voice. "I don't understand. What is this meant to prove?"

"It proves," her grandmother replied, her tone radiating kindness, "that you were never forgotten."

For the second time that day, she began to relate the events of the past, the tale this time unfolding for the one who truly needed to hear it. Tensely, Grell watched the deluge of information be processed through the overwhelmed Madam Red's mind, watched her hurl question after dubious, troubled question at the one who was revealing to her the truth, until at last it seemed everything had been answered. Sinking into the nearest chair, she held both hands to her head, furiously fighting back the tears of long-harbored hurt and anger as she tried to comprehend.

Mrs. Harvey moved toward her, and for a moment the silently observing servant thought that Madam Red might lash out. But she did not, and he watched as the older woman gently placed a hand on her shoulder, softly uttering two words. The last of her indignation now spent, Madam Red covered her eyes with one hand, allowing the tears to finally be shed.

Deeply, Grell exhaled, all the worries and cares of the past day – of the past few weeks, rather – seeming to rush away and vanish with his breath. He smiled, the inferno that had built up in his nerves at long last extinguished.

It seemed that his role in this performance had amounted to more than that of a buffoon after all.

/

Grasping the handle of a traveling-case in either hand, the servant of Madam Angelina Durless sauntered outside of the Harvey residence, humming gaily to himself. A noticeable spring was in his step, and his spirits soared, for he was officially no longer Rachel Phantomhive, or any female, and it felt absolutely fabulous. The sight of his normal clothes had nearly made him weep with joy, and he was fairly certain he had hugged them before putting them on, but felt no indignity over this. No more constricted movements, no more stumbling, no more hiding. If it hadn't been so improper, he would have gone running across Mrs. Harvey's yard, whooping in delight at being able to take long strides again, but surely the madam would have smacked him upside the head.

"I believe this is everything, my lady."

"Good, very good", she replied, nodding, and then turned to where her relative stood. "…Grandmother, are you sure you want to give me that ring, in addition to the painting? I can't deny how much I like it, but after all of this…it's just not the same as giving it to Rachel, is it?"

"Take it, dear. If I had believed before that your sister was departed, it would have been handed down to no one but you. You did not forget it, did you?"

"No, Ma'am; it is packed away along with – with everything that I was wearing," Grell confirmed. He had almost said _my dress_, but would never have forgiven himself if he had.

"Well, your carriage is waiting," Mrs. Harvey said, indicating the vehicle parked at the edge of the property. "It would do no good to miss your train." She and Madam Red embraced and kissed, and Grell bowed.

"Thank you for everything, Grandmother."

"Goodbye to the both of you! I shall look forward to writing to you soon!"

Having helped Madam Red into the carriage, Grell climbed in after her and sat down, while the coachman, a different gentleman than before, loaded on the rest of the luggage. As the horses were readied, he looked out the narrow window and up to the house which he was finally, _finally_ leaving, where Mrs. Harvey was waving at them from the front door. He waved back, and with a jolt, the coach began its rough trek over the cobblestones, the house rapidly falling out of sight. With a deep sigh that he could not have suppressed if he wanted to, the weary actor leaned his head back against the leather seat, and closed his eyes.

"Grell?"

Quickly, he snapped them back open, and sat at attention, noting the trace of hesitancy in her voice. "Yes, my lady?"

For a moment, she paused, merely gazing at him with rueful eyes. Then, she smiled sadly. "…I just realized that I never once thanked you for any of this. What you did…there are simply no words for. I am so sorry, Grell. Truly I am. But all the same…thank you. If you resent me from now on, I completely understand."

"No, my lady, never!" he hurriedly and sincerely exclaimed. "I couldn't – in fact, I cannot even make sense of such a blasphemous notion!" _It is I who should be showing thanks to you, after all…perhaps one day I can ask if you meant it, back there when you called me a friend…_

Madam Red sighed, but smiled. "Listen, I've been thinking…although I originally planned to have you take that dress back to Turner's, instead I think I will let you do with it as you like. You wore it, after all, so you should be the one to decide its fate."

The exhausted butler's eyes lit up, fireworks seen exploding from within. A devilish grin spread across his face. "In that case, Madam, I say that –"

The eyes narrowed. " – we burn it."

/

Saturday was quiet and peaceful. Madam Red sat in the sunlit drawing room, taking her mid-afternoon tea and enjoying the serenity that currently dominated the house. Grell was not attending to her today, for this was his second day of well-earned, non-holiday freedom. Yesterday, his first day, he had spent the majority of in profound slumber, and as he had not yet shown himself, she guessed that today he would be doing the same.

"…Madam?"

The red-clad woman looked up. So she had been proven wrong; for there he was, peering inside through the open doorway from across the room. He was dressed to go out, his wallet in hand.

"Good afternoon," she greeted him, setting down her teacup. "I see that you have made up your mind to rouse yourself."

"Yes indeed, my lady," responded the rested butler merrily, his good mood plain to see. "I've decided to go out today, perhaps to browse the shops and purchase some articles I need. I thought I ought to let you know." He hesitated. "Unless, of course, you require me for any reason…?"

"That's very good of you, and no, I require nothing. Go on now; make a day of it out there."

In relief that couldn't be concealed, he beamed. "Thank you, my lady. I shall be back soon." With a bow, he backed out of the room, and after tripping briefly, strolled out of sight. She heard him go down to the first floor, and soon stillness reigned once more.

Minutes later however, the unmistakable echoing of shoes against floorboards again reached her ears, growing louder with each passing second. Nettled somewhat, she called out to him without bothering to look up. "What happened, Grell?" No doubt he had left something behind.

He reappeared, but to her startled curiosity, a parcel was in his hands. Grell's expression and voice both emitted a sort of unease as he said, "Madam…it would appear that you have mail…from your grandmother."

She stared at him, and then at the bundle he held, before speaking. "…are you certain? Bring it here."

He came to her, and lowered the object to the floor before kneeling down and undoing the bindings. Stepping back to let Madam Red reach inside, he watched as she lifted out an envelope, which she promptly unsealed and opened to find a note. Restless, Grell waited as she began to read it.

"Grandmother thanks us for our visit," Madam Red said slowly, crimson eyes flickering over the words. "She says she enjoyed it immensely. And…" She trailed off, brow creasing. "…that's awfully odd. She doesn't mention you at all, only…Rachel." Grell tilted his head in confusion, and then flinched backward as she flung her hands skyward in exasperation. "There she goes, forgetting again! The way she writes, somehow she still thinks that it was Rachel who came with me to see her – as if that whole ridiculous scene when you opened your mouth and fell down never happened!"

"Y-you don't say so, Madam."

"I'm afraid it's true – can you believe it?" she exclaimed, swiftly folding up the paper and stuffing it back into the envelope. "Incredible!" Pausing then, she glanced down at the package. "It's a pity, really; if she had remembered the whole truth, she wouldn't have gone to the trouble of sending a gift, for her letter says it is for Rachel. She said she noticed how…thick Rachel seemed, whatever that means."

Grell too eyed the parcel, a creeping fear settling over him suddenly.

"Well, we might as well take a look," Madam Red sighed, and bent down again to reach into the package. The inner wrappings rustled as she brushed them aside to uncover what lay packed below.

She lifted the object into view, and Grell could have died.

Examining the stiff, whaleboned -lined piece of white fabric, Madam Red raised her eyebrows. "My, my…what an old, unfashionable one this is. Very much out of style, no color or embroidery whatsoever. Well, no matter; I have no use for another corset anyway. But if you ever fancy dressing as a female again, Grell," she smiled, laughter bubbling in her voice, "you can always…Grell?"

Swinging on its hinges, the door slammed shut.

/

**...and so we have reached the end! Let's hope that Grell won't be scarred for life by that whole experience. XD Thanks for sticking with the story, and hope you liked. Please drop a review if you have time. If you'd like to read more about my version of Grell, "Unfit to Serve" is my other story (or series of one-shots) about him. That's the last time I advertise it, I promise…**

**Thank you again for reading!**

**Mrs. Harvey's two words were "I'm sorry", by the way.**


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